


Inhale, Exhale

by voltali



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 04:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5813287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voltali/pseuds/voltali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logic grapples with incessant human emotion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John leaves dressed handsomely for a date, temptation is high, and cases are nowhere to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of a story I started many years ago and just reclaimed the desire to complete. Un-beta'ed so far, but will be in the future. I haven't written for some time, so let me know what criticisms you may have!

One

                  Eyelids snap open.  Intake a shuddering breath (breathing always was a nuisance on my part).  I have the vague realization that I may be hungry or thirsty or require more sleep, but I suppress these animalistic instincts with a practiced ease.  Gaze flickers across the room, taking in every detail of the sitting room of my flat.  Every aspect of 221b is exactly as I remember as of—I move my wrist up to my eyes with great effort, blinking at the slim roman numerals—three hours ago, presumably the time my body had won the war after a little more than fifty hours of think, run, solve, fight, John, wounds, Lestrade, paperwork, except with the addition of a cream teacup (hand-painted, antique porcelain—real china; John was always nostalgic for real antiques) containing a pool of dark liquid (can guess that it’s still at least fifteen degrees warmer than the cool London air in our flat by the occasional vaporous wisps of translucent white that dance up from the deep rust of the tea). 

                  John.  Why had he made tea when he was already so exhausted?  Unraveling myself from the horizontal fetal position, I swing my legs towards to floor, using that momentum to also bring my upper body into an upright position.  An instinctive hand makes a desperate grasp for the arm of the sofa as my line of vision swims before me.  Hiss a curse at my mind’s fleshy transportation.  Vertigo is happening more often.  Scrawl that down in a book in the library that is my brain.  Pause.  Redact.  Unimportant.  John will notice if it becomes a problem.  _John._   Jaw clenches—frustration.  I scrunch my nose as his role in my life expands without my realizing it (wonderful, strong, kind, unwavering, gentle, determined, simple John).  His presence eats away at my barrier, my armor.  His flower is a beautiful, colorful weed that has sprouted in my empty field, ever so slowly strangling my trim, proper, perfect verdant green.  I suck in another deep breath as my brain registers the cries of my shriveled lungs.  The thought of John impedes my ability to think about anything else, even forces me to forget the existence of my diaphragm.  I repeat breathing this way for three more cycles before forcing the weight of my body on my weak legs and looping a finger through the arm of the teacup.

                  My feet drag themselves across the dark stained oak floors as I bring the rich liquid to my lips for a long draught.  My body happily accepts John’s gracious offering, making it easier to force my feet into light graceful steps as they climb the stairs to John’s room.  The great door is slightly ajar at it always is (strange as John is of the military; would think he wouldn’t leave things open carelessly), and I press the side of my face onto the jamb, peering into his ridiculously tidy room.  Eyeing the rise and fall of his chest, I confirm that indeed, he is asleep, before cataloging everything before me.  His light, sandy hair shines a deep gold as it captures the first rays of the morning’s sun, a stark contrast to the twisted expression of agony consuming his features.  Nightmares, again? Still?  The form quivers, just noticeably under the off-white bed sheets.  My lips press into a thin line before tearing my eyes off of the scene, as a force myself to ghost down the stairs.

\---

                  John is dressing into clothes in which he wouldn’t ever present himself to only me. Not his jumpers, which emphasize his tenderness, which I could bury my nose into when he is at the surgery. I saw Stravinsky out of my violin, pulling sick, irritated music out of its strings with my bow, earning me two broken hairs.  Continue anyway, ignoring the flapping white flashes as the tickle my hand.  John hates modern classical, and I would love to play him a rich Romantic Mussorgsky (he loves the powerful, flowing melodies as opposed to the complex, dissonant sounds of the 20th century), but for now, I have to grate any nerve I can.  It’s my only form of vengeance.  The uneven footfalls on the stairs, accompanied by a heavy sigh, allow me to picture the irritation lined on his face without having to turn from the window to look.  He knows I’m doing this for him.  To him.  Does he know my motives?  Virtually impossible.  I only move my bow toward the bridge and make an obvious effort to polish only the hair at the frog.  The increase in volume hits him with an irritated sniff and I grin in response.  I don’t know if he is aware that I am improvising, cutting, splicing, inserting notes to prolong the piece.  If he doesn’t, then the fact that he begins to speak as I produce music is the pinnacle of expression I have experienced yet from him.  John loves my music most of the time, deals with it others, but never interrupts.  I furrow my brows when I realize that this outburst is for another, not in defense of me, but an anger poised at my very core.

                  John is telling me to stop, to do something that is actually productive, to quit annoying him because he “knows it’s just to put him off.”  I whip the gorgeous spruce off of my chin, ignoring the silk cloth that floats to the ground (refuse to use chin or shoulder rest—not original, comfort is dull).  Spin around, focus sharply (eyes should look like silver daggers currently, which is good) on the well dressed man before me (the crisp navy button-up, black trousers, and polished shoes do not fit him at all).  I crinkle my nose and cannot help the sneer that comes out of my mouth.  “Certainly you can buy her bed with the expense of that shirt.”

                  Contrary to popular belief, my knowledge of social protocol is vast.  Didn’t necessarily mean I cared about the repercussions or consequences until now.  It was harsh.  I knew; how could I not know?  I knew he would make that face, look at me with those eyes as soon as I opened my mouth.  I had hoped otherwise, but that always was useless, wasn’t it?  Hoping earned nothing.  No matter my desire to see his genuine, eye-crinkling smile, to hear his hearty, barrel chest laugh, my actions had successfully torn through our bond.  Of course it did.  People can only take so much abuse, beating, lashing, hurt, anguish.  Experience.  Knew this from experience.  Had always been convinced I was better off without them when they left me (images of Mycroft and Victor appear before me—redact, redact, redact).  John was no different.  How could he be?  How could I, with my outrageous standards, expect so much from just a man?

                  Until now.

                  It happened in mere seconds. 

                  Tightening of the jaw, straightening of shoulders, projection of chest, locking of knees, slide of feet to accommodate a better center of gravity, straining of neck muscles, quick bobbing of adam’s apple, narrowing of eyelids, flaring of nostrils.  This swirling vortex of information sorted itself instantly in my mind, giving me very few possibilities.  The most implausible was also my best hope, but seeing the clarity in his eyes, which focused on my own, told me John was not experiencing any kind of flashback.   His anger had a target.  And the target his normally tender, rich eyes attempted to bore holes into was none other than me.

 “ _Sherlock_.”  A whisper.  Dripping with acid.  Acid that doused every centimeter of me, firing all of my nerves.

                  Pain, searing, screaming, agonizing pain.  Hair rising, mouth drying, fingers trembling, teeth grinding; it had all hit me at once.  I swayed slightly.  Knees threatened to buckle under the dead weight my body became.  Yes, dead, that is what I felt now.  This was the torturous death of the emotions I had locked away.  Locked away with heavy chains.  Chains that dragged them into the depths of my very being.  Hidden.  Out of sight means non-existent.  Foolish, silly, stupid, naïve, absurd, ludicrous.  I had underestimated their power, potential, effect.  Wrong.  Utterly, completely, thoroughly, absolutely wrong.  With a vengeance, they gripped my body now.  Too weak.  Could not entirely contain the shudder that threatened to shake my body into its smallest possible components, into indistinguishable atoms.  How ironic.  The very vile aspect of humanity I had chosen to throw away, to deny, would be the death of me.  Unable to suppress the hollow laugh that bubbled up from my core, escaping pale, cracked lips.

                  Not acceptable.  Regardless of my inner turmoil, I could not allow John to see the control he unwittingly had over me.  Stop, suppress, control, kill, kill, kill.  Act, fake, lie.  Seal the cracks in my mask.  Replace my twisted mouth with a smirk.  Do not allow this man any more control.  Yes, smile my best, as if Mummy were asking for a feign of happiness for a family photo.  Relish in his confusion.  Hold it.  Good.  Now put the violin on my shoulder.  Play the sweetest melody in the world. 

                  Mere seconds.

                  The choice wasn’t completely intentional.  Perhaps John will think the trembling in my fingers is just vibrato?  Perhaps he won’t be able to recognize Mozart’s “Lacrimosa”?

                  Mere seconds, and John was swift on his heel, down the stairs.  Why is his limp so prominent?

                  Seconds, and without realizing it (perhaps I can convince myself it was to save him) John Watson had slipped through my fingers, taking my very heart with him.


	2. Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A 7% solution would alleviate this stress, but John's disappointment would be crushing.

Two

                  To say that I had waited up for John to come home would imply that the only reason to my being awake was to ensure his arrival, and that was certainly not the case. Causes of insomnia include but are not limited to: interesting experiments or research, stimulants, stress, anxiety, depression, etc.  The majority of my attention was focused currently on the severed fingers laid out next to exact replicas of my creation out of silicone.  Fingerprinting was something I had already studied but currently a case involving the ability to alter prints had piqued my interest in the easiest way to replicate a fingerprint from merely lifting one as an example.  Give the print depth, create a three dimensional model that can be worn discretely on the tips of one’s fingers, use flexible material that allows the natural sebaceous oils of flesh to permeate, form print, compare to original.  Repeat using different prints and materials.  A tedious yet exciting experiment.  Engrossing.  Satisfaction at self made blend of polymers.  Publish results on blog.  Perhaps it’ll receive more hits than the cigarette ash article?  Maybe not, but irrelevant anyway.  Glance at wrist watch face.  1.38 A.M.  Blink. Place wrist against ear.  Ticking.  Keeping accurate time.  Shift gaze to window.  Black, with yellow glow of streetlamps.  Must be correct then.  John’s been absent:  five hours and twenty-six minutes.  Gnaw inside of cheek.

                  _John.  John in his best clothes (not for me; never for me).  With a woman.  Probably a brunette, small—to look proportional to him.  Enjoys sitting and reading and boring telly and white wine and cuddling.  Perhaps a teacher, another doctor (nothing more interesting than a simple clinician or family practice), a lawyer (simple civil court of course), librarian, other boring professions.  Hates his comfortable jumpers; makes the woman also look older.  Makes him dress younger.  Hobbies include:  watching movies, finishing puzzles (tangible, jigsaw types, not my type of puzzles), dinner parties with friends, etc.  He’s sleeping with her by now.  Redact. Light, post coital caresses, most likely.  Redact, redact.  Not what he needs.  What he wants, perhaps, but John doesn’t know what he needs.  Can imagine:  marrying, “settling down,” getting full time job at Bart’s surgery, working 9-5, having children, limping, nightmares, feeling unfulfilled, itching but never resolving, looking back and realizing what he truly wanted, regretting.  Dull, boring, insipid, vapid.  A vapid existence.  Needs life, excitement, fear, anticipation, adrenaline.  I am his adrenaline._

                  Inhale sharply as reality calls attention.  Heavy footfalls.  Uneven, stumbling, shuffling.  Significant difference in volume from one foot to the other with a swung rhythm, imitating a slow jazz groove.  John.  But a John even more stupid than usual.  Light sliding rustle of fingertips ghosting along wallpaper; just in case of a loss of equilibrium?  Hypothesis unconfirmed as door handle is shaken with trembling hands.  Hypothesis of possible drunken state confirmed, however.  I cross the flat with a few long strides; he might be unstable.  Limp is considerably more prominent than five—glance at watch—strike that, over six hours ago.  Enhanced by intoxication?  Perhaps.  Experiments will be scheduled to test theory later.  Grip knob with fingers and begin to twist when John turns it correctly and stumbles in.  Automatically, my arms reach out to steady him.  Blink.  Why?  Contact is unnecessary, boring, dull, implies unwanted things to others.  Focus, focus on John.

                  John.  Flushed, limping, swaying.  Eyebrows bowed upwards in a mix of pathetic looking emotions.  Turn away; feels like spying (doesn’t usually with others; why with John?).  Grip shoulder with one hand, tug at his leather coat with the other.  Compliant.  Strange.  Wouldn’t have thought, considering his stiff military background.  Brown chocolate orbs, dilated, stare into my own.  The tang of alcohol just barely masks his natural musk:  vanilla, cinnamon, sandlewood.  I pulled myself from the crook of his neck.  When had I buried my nose under his collar?  Redact.  This is what he has done, does to me.  I can feel my elevated heart rate, threatening to break my ribs from the sheer force of its pumping.  Can feel my brain fill with a fog of everything he is, does.  John.  I feel myself detaching, and it scares me.  Dangerous.  Push him away at to arms length.  Safer.  He whimpers.  Why?  The loss of my cool fingers from his warm neck?  His soft face twists into pain.  What ails him? His leg or head or stomach?  Can’t read, deduce, understand.  Frustration.

                  John grumbles incoherently.  I can tell that he was at the pub for at least three hours by the state he is in.  This isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last if he we continue like this.  I chew on my lips, ripping the flecks of dried flesh from them.  His eyes shift to the door, looking past it.  To his room, perhaps?  He sags in my hands; John’s knees tremble beneath him.  My limbs also feel weak.  My room is closer.  Would that be appropriate?  I could care less.  Mind produces images of John’s form sprawled in my bed, twisted around him, tucked into my side.  Redact, redact.  I hiss a self loathing curse and shake my head.  Wipe my damp forehead on my sleeve.  Plant my feet and half lift him up, my arms around his waist, and drag him the successful three steps to my room, twist open the door roughly, and throw the small doctor onto my bed.  He rolls side to side.  To get comfortable?  My eyes whip to his shoes, stiff trousers, and belt that is poking (painfully?) into his abdomen.  I can do this, as long as it’s quick.

                  I force my trembling fingers to still as I pull off his (now scuffed) patent leather oxfords.  Yank (yes, I am no longer the graceful form John admires so; I yank) his black socks.  Shake as my fingers ghost over his buckle.  I swallow, willing myself to at least appear calm.  Curse, trying to redact the burn the visions of a nude John, panting against his sheets.  Avert gaze to the wall; forget the belt, just curl my fingers into the think material and pull.  They drop onto the wood with a crack as the metal hits the floor.  The sound echoes like a gunshot in the small room.  John stirs and a lopsided grin consumes his face as his eyes focus on me.  I shudder, willing him to forget.  Don’t want him to see me like this.  Weak, vulnerable, stupid Sherlock. 

                  Why was he here? Wasn’t he supposed to be spending the night with a normal, thirty-something-year-old woman with a normal career and a taste in modern fashion?  Why wasn’t he relieving the pent up sexual frustration he’d surely accumulated over the past three days while working on that case?  And yet he had been drinking for approximately three hours.  Cannot confirm a specific time (brain is foggy).  Obviously, he had gone on the date (I can see the small smear of a dark red sauce on his right cuff).  Italian.  Perhaps it didn’t go well?  Doubt it, John is the perfect gentleman.  Memories of him flirting with new faces or comforting victims floods my mind.  Redact, redact, redact.

He hums.  “… Didn’t ever think you’d be one to care for me,” he giggles.  I inhale sharply.  What will he think of me?  This isn’t who I am.  Does he see my face twisted in fear?  Because his face softens, and he reaches a hand, brushes it against my cheekbone, stroking the pads of his fingers down along my jaw line, tickling the product of three days of neglecting proper hygiene.  I exhale, not realizing I had been holding my breath.  Come back.  Regain control of my body.  Step back.  Get away.  I swivel around and escape, pulling the door to my room back in place, perhaps with too much force.  Growl something guttural.  Who am I?  Who is this creature consumed by emotion?  Not Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective.  The cold, calculating, deducing Virgin?  Terrified.  This is what John does.  Reduces the great Holmes from a cold marble statue to a mercurial, feeble, emotional human being.  Exhaling with a shudder, I throw myself back onto the sofa, curling into a small agglomeration of flesh, tensing my arms around my folded legs.  Envisioning the heartfelt disappointment on John’s face is what keeps me from rushing down the stairs and to the nearest dark corner of London in search for a strong opiate.


	3. Distractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John needs distractions, and I need cases to distract me from John.

Three

                  Awake to soft padding in the kitchen.  Don’t move.  Perhaps he hasn’t noticed.  Maintain slow, deep breathing pattern.  Open lashes two millimeters, only enough to acquire a thin, hazy image.  John is boiling the kettle.  His hair is damp and he has changed into corduroys and a jumper.  Back to simple, plain, normal John.  All evidence of the previous night has been erased that I can see.  My mind is kind enough to provide images of the current condition of my room:  lacking the haphazard piles of John’s clothes, new sheets and comforter, with all of the corners in triangle folds, just as John’s military cot would have.  He is acting completely ordinary, partaking in routine activities.  No change.  I ignore the bittersweet swell of paradoxical emotions in my chest. 

                  Decide to rise from my current fetal position.  Force body up, reach for mobile on the table.  No texts.  Dull, boring, insipid.  Glance at the newspaper folded carefully by my phone.  Laid out by John.  Scan cover for something of interest.  Report of a second body found, cooked from the inside, out, eyeballs burst in apparent explosion.  Could take at least some my mind off of the jumbled puzzle of John.  Text Lestrade; force him to give me some kind of information regarding the case.  Refused my help on the first body, but he should be getting desperate after a second has appeared.

                  _Need reports/photos of first body in “spontaneous combustion” case.  Will be at the second scene in half an hour, if London traffic permits.  SH_

                  I actually jump to my feet, able to disregard my groaning joints and sore muscles, the excitement of a new case releasing a rush of adrenaline.  As the chemicals pulse through my veins, accelerated by my increased heart rate, I run into the shower and ignore the onslaught of freezing water (John used all of the warm water; just wash myself with a thick lather of bar soap; no time for any specific products), barely towel myself off before rushing into my room and pulling on a silk shirt, black trousers, and leather shoes.  Throw open the door, see John look at me with an eyebrow quirked (a contrast to the furrowed brows, a product of his heavy drinking no doubt).  “A case?” He whispers, as if any loud sounds would cause the explosion of his brain matter.  I don’t regret all of the noise I have made in my mad scrambling to make myself somewhat presentable.  A small bit of vengeance for his actions last night, and a bit of victory in recovering my cool demeanor.

                  “They’ve found another body in Camden,” I explained, as I pulled on my great coat and wound my scarf around my neck.  The clouds were dark and heavy with water vapor.  Will rain in less than an hour.  John turned the kettle off and reached for his leather coat behind me.  I stepped out of the way, swallowing as memories of the previous night surfaced in my mind.  Glance at John.  He does not seem to act any differently as he pulls on the dark brown jacket.  I wrench open the door and glide down the stairs.  Good (I decided).  He won’t remember the slip of my mask.  Must focus on the case.

                  Which didn’t seem hard as my phone began to vibrate incessantly; emails and photos from Lestrade flooding it.  Hail a taxi, slide in.  John sits farther from me than usual.  Averts my gaze.  Must still be irritated from my comments before he had gone on his date.  Those he does remember.  Why was he still in a mood if the date hadn’t gone well?  I huff and examine the photos of the body on the small screen of my phone.  Must text Lestrade:

                  _Make sure Anderson doesn’t touch anything.  Keep your team from the site as much as possible.  SH_

\---

                  The body was gorgeous.  Perfect, brilliant, amazing, unique.  The flesh was harder than it should have been.  _Cooked through_.  Interesting.  The sick taupe color was not/should not be natural.  Couldn’t suppress the grin on my face.  Sally is glaring.  Good.  The woman’s face was a perfect model of anguish.  The hollows that should have contained her eyes were full of some kind of hard substance that had once been a boiling liquid.  Captivating.  Her house did not have any evidence of the presence of another at any point.  The door was locked, windows sealed.  A closed room murder.  Ingenious.  Perfect.  A perfect gift.

                  John was horrified.  Not six inches from the threshold of the room, averting his eyes from the body.  Attempting to focus on anything but the sprawled figure, contorted in pure agony.  His jaw is set and the muscles of his neck are straining.  I ignore all of these signs.  John has seen worse.  He can take it.  I believe in him.  He likes this, just as I do.  He has to.  “Cause of death?” I ask him, smiling.  He shifts his hard brown eyes to mine (yes, just look at me; stay focused on me).  That tongue darts between his lips and sweeps over the swollen lip he’s been chewing on while not looking at the body.  Chest expands with a large inhale.  Stalling.  Unsure.  Confused.  Distraught?  Possibly.

                  “Unknown,” he starts in a weak voice before coughing it into his lower rumble.  “It would seem that the body has somehow been at an elevated temperature for a considerable amount of time.  But…”  John pauses, attempting to articulate his confusion into coherent thoughts.  I’m patient with him now.  I like seeing the cogs in his brain rotate, trying to make sense of the scene before him.  Unlike my irritation with others when attempting to solve a puzzle.  John is different.  Special.  He makes a strained noise; he’s at a loss with the body before him.  “…but the flesh, the skin, seems to be, um… not as affected as the internal organs and soft tissues.” His voice ends at a higher pitch than that he started at. 

                  “Yes, exactly! The softer tissues such as the eyesballs have burst, which apparently also happened to the internal organs within the victim—see the chest and abdomen are bloated—which will be confirmed after Molly cuts her open.”  I smile down at the body fondly.  Such a perfect mystery.  “And yet there are no signs of forced entry, others around her at the time of death, or an origin for the death.”  I say as I stalk around the room, confirming my hypotheses with a pocket lens.  “Peculiar. Brilliant, indeed…”  There is nothing more to view at the crime scene.  I will visit Molly at the morgue later.  Must stalk around the small cottage before heading off, however.  Turn and stalk out into the light mist outside.  Impatient!  Should have examined the outside perimeter before viewing the indoor body.  The sprinkling had just started though, and all evidence should still be intact.

                  Scan around the house.  Uncared for flower beds lined the front and two sides of the cottage; the chimney spanned the back of the house.  There had to have been something.  Anything.  If the murderer had never been inside, they must have been outside.  Somehow managing to heat the woman (but not the house itself, candles had remained unharmed).  “Oh!”  Pull out mobile, compose message for John, who is still inside (talking to Lestrade? attempting to make sense of the scene?).

                  _Collect samples of fruit or meat in the house.  SH_

                  The “cooking” of the victim was in a very specific and strange way.   Missing some evidence, however, and the question is still how they would have managed it.  Ah! Yes, a footprint.  Must have stumbled a foot into the soft fertilizer of the flower bed without realizing it.  The depression was perfect.  A cheap type of trainers, size ten in mens.  Still need background profiles on victims.  Any possible links between the two to ensure some kind of connection between them.

                  _Need personal info and backgrounds on victims.  Give them to John.  SH_

\---

                  It ended up being a fairly boring case.  Six hours and thirty seven minutes after texting Lestrade, and I am crouched in an abandoned-warehouse-converted-laboratory close enough to John to feel his warmth.  The murderer hasn’t noticed us yet.  John’s hand is gripped around his handgun, his index finger caressing the trigger.  He’s somehow managed to stretch himself around me in some kind of protective stance, even though I’m perfectly capable to handle myself.  Wonder if this is some kind of reflex from being a senior officer in the military or if he’s just worried about me.  Logical mind is telling me the first with a 96% accuracy rate, but I’m still somehow hoping it’s the latter.

                  The suspect is building a larger version of the killing machines he has used in his previous crimes.  Have to stop him before it’s in working order.  Slow acting, but effects are irreversible.  I peer over the stack of boxes John and I are entangled behind.  Swallow when my eyes see the gun he has tucked into his waistband and the other two (a high powered rifle and a machine gun) on his workdesk.  Sniff at the incompetence of the Russian military.  How would they not notice his theft of not only guns, but also the experimental microwave producing weaponry.  Whip out mobile, send text to Lestrade.  Don’t think we can get out of this without inflicting life threatening injuries on the man.

_Bring an ambulance if you want to question him.  SH_

                  Shift eyes to John’s.  His face is damp with a sheen of sweat.  His elevated pulse (visible at his neck) suggests he is afraid, but I know he is just excited.  Especially because he knows I need him (could have done this differently, but wanted John to know how much I trust him and depend on him, so I decided to make it appear as if I relied on his help for this case).  Mobile says Lestrade is less than a minute away (also tells me not to do anything rash.  I’m not).  Nod once.  A blink and the bob of his Adam’s apple from him suggest he understands.  Tendons in his hand tighten.  His jaw is set and I can see his teeth grind a bit.  Eyes become unfocused on me (irritating; you only need me, John), probably travel to the war.  With terrifying accuracy, John lifts the heavy piece of weaponry, takes aim at the murderer’s right shoulder, and pulls the trigger with a gentle force.  Sound hums in my ears, John exhales, the clavicle and right shoulder blade of the culprit are shattered in an incredible number of pieces (can visualize the bone splintering, cracking).  Think of John with the same injury.  A broken, crumpled injured John.  Nothing like my determined, sure, perfect John.  His scent of black tea and sandlewood is overwhelming this close.  And the pain in my chest forces me to swallow and look away from the form before me.


	4. Reciprocity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bodies do not always listen to their masters, despite the overwhelming need to control their actions.

Four

                  John is still angry.  The case was not enough to distract him.  Bite into cheek until tang of iron floats on my tongue.  Did not return to 221b after having to sit through Lestrade’s dull paperwork.  Deducing for John is fun; cannot stand the blank look on the detectives’ faces as I explain the case (don’t mind answering John’s questions—usually followed by praise).  Tell them as hurriedly as possible that:  murderer was a scientist commissioned by the Russian government to create a weapon using the technology associated with a microwave (obviously); weapon failed (did kill people, but not from the distance desired); steals technology and kills those who knew about it with, using it (probably some kind of way to prove it does work).  Hail a taxi and realize that John does not get in.  Instead he goes for a pint with Lestrade rather than insisting I eat or sleep or drink tea.  Decide I must create a schism between the two (he only needs me; Lestrade doesn’t deserve his time).  Redact; John will become angry if I try to dominate his whole life (why is that?).  Exhale.  Breathing is taking too much effort.  Futile attempt to reach mobile (resulting in a mere finger twitch).  Cannot remember last food item ingested.  Bad sign.  Too busy thinking about John to cater to the needs of my body.

                  Mind at war with itself.  Logical part (the correct part, obviously) has the facts, details, evidence.  The instinct side, the traits of myself I attempt to stamp out, to extinguish, to kill, claws with great desire within me.  For one thing.  Not anything associated with surviving, but what I need to survive.  Not an atmosphere of 20% oxygen, or nutrients, or dihydrogen oxide, but John.  Simple, ignorant, irrational John.  Swallow.  He’d come to hate me.  Couldn’t live without him; can cope without keeping him to myself.  But I don’t want to.  Want to chain him, cage him, asphyxiate him with my presence.  Inhale sharply.  The thought is mesmerizing; the fantasy entrancing.  Enough to sate the growling beast within my ribcage for just a short while.  Until the left brain is drawing out possible timelines, possible events, possible futures.  And all of them except remaining where I am end with his leaving me.  Exhale slowly.  Blink.  Vision swims.  Nausea.  Attempt to swallow fails—cottonmouth.  Attempt to inhale—feels as if a 20kg weight has been placed on my chest.  Sudden realization as tunnel vision starts closing in.  John is necessary.  Can’t exist without him (when did I become so dependent?).  Black.

\---

                  Warm touch against clammy skin (mine? Yes, mine).  Ghost over my form, apply pressure at pulse points.  Feels comforting, relaxing.  Must be John.  Dull pain in left ante-elbow.  Intravenous fluids.  Perfect John.  Takes eons to open eyelids; feel like they weigh just as much as an eon is long.  Vision meets sandy hair.  Can feel the corners of my mouth twitch.  Can hear a dramatic sigh.

                  “How did you even survive without me before if you cannot take care of yourself for one night, hmm?”  John is saying sarcastic words, is attempting to sound exasperated, but his voice sounds… happy?  I’m not wrong; I just don’t understand (because the great Sherlock Holmes is vulnerable or…?).

                  My brain is turning, picking up speed.  Whatever John has given me is working wonders.  Think, think, think.  Have the urge to sting him with wit, but the words are awkward on my tongue and I can’t say them.  I realize, they’re not correct.  Not what I want to say; not my emotions.  But cannot articulate those without sounding pretentious or selfish either (surely he doesn’t want to hear “stay by me, always” or “you only need me”).  Grit teeth in frustration.  Can see the concern on his face.  Would he stay by me if I asked him to? Probably.  That’s the kind of man John Watson is.  But I cannot ask him to with words.

                  Before I really think about it, my body reacts.  Tired of its master dictating every action, perhaps?  Long, awkward fingers extend to lace through John’s sandy brown mop.  Everything slows down, as if this scene was taken by a high speed camera, and I’m watching the playback.  I bring his head (face twisted in confusion and all), closer to my own until I can feel the pressure of his pale, thin lips against my own.

                  John makes a startled noise, but doesn’t reject me.  Surprisingly (not really; I had virtually known he harbored some kind of “special” emotions for me), he melts into my touch, responding eagerly to my proposition.  He’s skilled and knows it.  Also knows I am the opposite.  He dominates my lips, sucking them and running his tongue along them, between them.  Ah.  I open my mouth and he greedily devours it as if he was given a long anticipated present.  I can feel his fingers twist into my curls.  He climbs onto the sofa, his knees between my own (a sign of dominance), and ravages my mouth with his own.  He explores every centimeter, and I do the same (everything is filed neatly into my ‘John’ folder; I want to know everything about him).  Finally, he breaks from my lips as I shudder in a much needed inhale.  John can do this while breathing; must learn to do the same.  He drops small, chaste kisses along my jawline and cheekbones.  I can feel my face warm.

                  Suddenly, he rolls back onto his haunches, breaking nearly all contact between our bodies.  Brings a hand up to his mouth as if he has said something terribly inappropriate (how English).  I quirk an eyebrow in a question.

                  “But…” he begins slowly, looking for words to convey himself properly (John always does his best to emphasize his intellect when speaking to me, probably as some kind of hope that I will not look down on him).  “…you don’t do…” A pause.  “—this.”  He motions between us.  I can’t help my eye roll.  “Obviously.”  Perhaps the word contained a bit too much irritation in its tone.

                  John looks alarmed now, and I suddenly realize I need to add on.  “Except with you.”  I shrug.  He flushes.  Not that it’s hard to make John blush, but I cannot keep my brows from raising as blood floods his cheeks.

                  “So I’m special?” he says, almost tentatively.  I huff as a “need I say it again, really?” At which he promptly closes the space between our forms.  Lips upon my own again.  Didn’t think I’d ever enjoy kissing as much as others claimed they did.  Could be wrong.  Must run more trials for conclusive data.  But I can’t.  Not when John is sliding his lightly calloused fingers along my tingling flesh.  Animalistic moan threatens to bubble from my throat.  Must turn the tables.  In a smooth movement, I detach the IV (it’s under some gauze; just press the medical tape down to keep it in place), hook a leg under his, and turn us horizontally, so that I am now looming above him.  John seems comfortable under me, continuing his onslaught of my lips as I begin to explore with my fingers.  Trace John’s form over his jumper, and it’s not enough.  Not accurate or precise enough.  Need to run my fingers along his taut, warm flesh.  Attempt to push jumper up, granting me a moan and help from John. 


	5. Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is perfect, except when he's not.

Five

                  John Watson is not a man who runs from a challenge (see: his lovely scars, his waistband handgun, his body flung over mine in protection).  Which I am seeing now.  Scars, desert, conflict, wounds, bodies of comrades.  How weak the human body is.  All tissue, even bone, even the ossified tissue that can hold the human body and lift hundreds of kilograms, shatters as if it is made of thin glass compared to a piece of metal traveling at 500 meters per second.  The unrelenting force of a bullet tears through flesh, through people, through John.  _My John_.  Redact.  Almost.  The scar.  The twisted knot of flesh on his shoulder indicates a lapse in time from receiving the wound and medical attention (his own) arriving.  Did he lose consciousness or was he in too much pain to treat himself for a while? I open my mouth to ask him the exact circumstances of his injury, but John cuts me off.

                  “Doesn’t bother you… does it?” He sounds unsure.  He sighs and shifts his weight under me. Uncomfortably?  “Of course it does.  It’s not the nicest thing to look at, is it?”

                  Confusion.  Uncomfortable.  Unhappy.  Irrate.  Why?  I scan his face, try to match my observations with previous data.  Slightly regretting my tendency to delete personal experiences of human emotion.  Don’t care how people respond to me.  Except John.  But what makes John angry with me?  My 7% solution.  Smelling like cigarettes.  Interrupting his dates.  Risking injury for data collection.  None of which I am currently engaging in.  _Currently._ Shove off, Mycroft.  What could he be uncomfortable about?  John enjoys Romantic and Classical music, boring telly, taking tea in antique china.  Females with small, elf-like features whose ears turn pink when he woos them.  _He likes beautiful things._   Ah yes, John enjoys fluffy hair and hand-painted tea cups—not long gaunt faces and awkward, gangly limbs.  Redact. Beautiful things like smooth, supple pale skin, free from blemishes.  Blemishes that are considered horrific to every day, boring, dull people. 

                  “Don’t be dull, John.”  He turns his face from mine and pulls his lips in tight.  He doesn’t understand.  He usually understands.  I realize my remark may not have been as comforting as I had hoped (I can only see how this might upset someone because it’s John, only John), as he puts a hand to my chest, pushing me away.  _You were always so slow, Sherlock_.  Not now, Mycroft.  You don’t know anything about John.  I have endless hours of data collected in my John folder.  Sandy brown hair, soft woolen jumpers, a steady hand (a hand that can save and a hand that can kill).  He praises me when I deduce.  He tolerates the miscellaneous body parts in the refrigerator.  He doesn’t berate me for Chopin at 4 a.m.  _You cannot give John Watson the simple life he wants and deserves._ Shut down Mycroft’s cruel whispers in my ear.  I can fix his limp.  I am his adrenaline. 

                  I push the hand resisting me away.  My cool thumb presses into the deepest cavern in his otherwise flawless epidermis.  John twinges and inhales sharply.  The dirty ammunition must have left small slivers of shrapnel beneath the scar tissue.  Microscopic flecks of metal make up my John.  Exhilarating.  I lower my head, but keep my eyes affixed to his face as I brush my lips against the unevenly healed lines at his shoulder. His face melts from slight agony to a quizzical look.  If John needs small gestures of comfort from time to time, even the heartless, calculating Sherlock Holmes can fulfil that role now and again.  _Forever?_   Ignore Mycroft.  “It’s beautiful,” I whisper against his scar.  John’s face expresses many emotions in 5.8 seconds.  Confused, upset, thinking hard (if he keeps furrowing his eyebrows like that, he’s going to regret it in a 3.7 years), understanding, and finally, pleasant (he should have been able to deduce faster than that; I made it pretty obvious.  Must get him to practice his deductive reasoning). 

                  “You have the most twisted sense of beauty,” John mocks me as I continue to explore his chest and torso, absorbing every detail: contour of muscles, the dip at his xyhoid process, the tan-pink color of his nipples, the increasing layer of adipocytes slowly covering his previously visible rectus adominis muscle, the slight difference in body hair coloration to his precise military cut cranial hair.  I realize his last statement has a 93.5% chance of referring to moments in the past at which I had voiced admiration over victims’ physical states.  “I was talking about the puzzles, John,” I mumble, weighing how angry John would be if I separated our flesh to fish the magnifying glass out of my coat pocket.  “Er yes, although I don’t quite understand how a case could be pretty,” he chuckles at his own wit, but frowns when I show no reaction.  A 99% chance of telling me to piss off.  Cannot lose this current opportunity.  Must continue with (very poor, misses many details) naked eye.  “Sherlock.”  I ignore him, entranced in my detailed inspection.  John tugs my face up to his, forcing me to make eye contact with him.  I narrow my eyes at the John who is interrupting my extensive analysis of John.  “Are you going to stare at my stomach all day, or are we going to get on with it then, hm?”  Admittedly, I had forgotten to further explore John’s lower half, even with the pressure of his partial erection on my thigh.  There was so much more research to do.  A sigh escapes my lips, and I touch them to the scar once more (I will be able to explore further, once John is unconscious, which is the only reason I am currently allowing this interruption).

                  “Really, you do have the most twisted sense of beauty, out of all the people I have met.”  John chuckles, as he struggles with the top most buttons on my violet shirt (he mumbles, “it’s reversed on blokes,” to amend his current lack of poise; how hard is it to mirror your normal actions?).  He pauses thoughtfully and shakes his head a bit.  “I take back that previous statement… ah, there you go!”  John had just now figured how to undo one button, while I’ve had his belt off for nearly 48 seconds by now and was starting to get impatient.  “As I was saying, if I think about it, the person with the worst sense of beauty I’ve ever met would be Moriarty, not you.”

                  Hearing that name released all of the same chemicals that were released by my neurons after my first line of cocaine.  However, exhilaration was not the emotion that washed over my body and chilled my spine.  Although chemically, excitement releases the equivalent levels of dopamine and serotonin in the brain and adrenaline in the body, the emotion that currently doused my entire being was fear.


End file.
